[prose#21] Rock the Vote - or Not.

In a desire to be transparent and vulnerable, I have two things to confess. One: tonight at 9:50 p.m., I ate an entire box of cheesy pasta - you know, the cheap fake stuff. The entire thing. It's approximately three servings. This was the week that I was supposed to be eating well and exercising and becoming a better person. Instead, I inhaled that entire pot full of caloric carbohydrates in about fifteen minutes. Health fail.

I tell you that to cushion this next confession (I can't see how you knowing about my gluttony will make you judge me less, but it's worth a shot). Here it is:

I didn't vote in the 2008 presidential election. I'm sorry if this bothers you, but it doesn't really bother me all that much.

It's strange that the whole voting issue has come to me having a strong desire to abstain. As a kid, I LOVED to vote. I loved the idea of it, the philosophy of it, the action of it. I always wanted to vote on the playground to find out what game we should play, because it was the most democratic way and everyone got a say. And I voted in every school election, even up through high school when those running were the ditsiest and most idiotic. My vote mattered, and I didn't want a student body president who was only chosen for her long blonde hair and her pelvic thrust (she was on dance team! mind out of the gutter!). Well, the next assembly, without fail, she was giving her acceptance speech despite my vote for her opponent, but hey, at least I gave it a shot.

As a kid, I was a big history buff (before AP history sucked the enjoyment away). I loved reading about our nation's history, the wars and the valor, even the pain and the suffering. It helped me understand the story of the land, how it was burned and bruised and stolen. I loved hearing the stories of presidents and their choices, good or bad. I didn't care too much for the politics - the stories of the people were what caught my attention. And I adored every woman who stood up and gave me the chance to sign my name on a ballot and say my piece.

I was so excited to vote for president, to be part of history books and wikipedia entries. I mean, as a 12 year old, I voted in the kids' mock election, choosing the next president. Obviously, I chose Jesus's candidate, good ole Bush himself. But it was all fake, and I couldn't wait for it to be real. I calculated it out. Unfortunately, I turned 18 in 2005, so I had to wait three whole years to vote. Also unfortunately, that was my little brother's first eligible presidential election as well, which was a big deal and sorely unfair when I was twelve and he was nine. Luckily, my entire family left me and moved to Canada when I was 18, so I had the last laugh (obviously, a story for another time).

Another very distinctive attribute of me, besides my ability to get incredibly excited about boring things, is my extreme indecisiveness. My friends force me to choose where to eat dinner out of a desire to "help me grow," which can be translated as a desire to make me suffer. One of my greatest gifts is the ability to see a situation or issue from multiple angles at the same time. It helps me to sympathize - it also paralyzes me and makes decisions nearly impossible.

When I got that election ballot in 2008, the one with the nominations for the presidency, I was paralyzed. The motion was easy enough; grasping a pen between the index finger and thumb, a back and forth motion with the pen's tip on the paper inside a printed box would release the ink, causing the box to be filled in and thus placing my vote.

I had tried to become informed so that I would make a good decision, but the more I looked, the more confused I became. So many people saying so many different things. He did that, he didn't do that, he said this one time. Who was to be believed? As someone who greatly respects the power of the word - both written and spoken - I knew that someone or many someones were misusing words to lie about another, defaming his name and his abilities. I just didn't know who.

In looking at the candidates themselves, I was torn. I didn't fully agree with either of them. At the same time, I partially agreed with both of them. Each candidate raised some great points and had some great ideas (also, which I knew would probably not ever come true). And each candidate stood squarely across the line from my own opinions on certain key issues. What was I to do?

Along with that internal tumult, I was getting fed up with advertising and individuals appealing to my spirituality as a reason to vote for one or the other. It's frustrating when my Jesus is tied to a certain candidate - or party - and my faith is in question if I vote a certain way. My faith background is conservative, my faith (college) education is liberal, and I'm pretty sure folks on both sides are going to be hanging around Jesus' feet once we get to the land beyond.

I'm seeing more and more that politics is a very difficult career path for true Christ-followers. The ways of life don't seem to piece together very easily. I suppose the same could be said about nearly every profession, but politics isn't a place to be authentic. It isn't a place to hold fast to your stances. It isn't a place to promote absolute Truth. It's a place to hold up a mask while making compromises.

Do not get me wrong. I am not making a statement about any candidates who are in office or seeking it. I know some very good men who are in office who I believe love Jesus deeply. I also know the turmoil they go through to be a Christ-follower in the government. It's a hard job, a hard world to exist within. And it's very little like Jesus' commands.

That's why I did not vote for the presidency. I couldn't decide who I wanted to run this country more. I couldn't even decide who I wanted to run this country less. So I didn't vote. I feel like I voted on some other issues, maybe a commissioner or something, but I left the box for president blank, sealed it, signed the envelope, and dropped it off at the post office. The next day, I smiled at the pictures of Americans crying with joy as Obama thanked the crowd, excitement lighting his face. And went on with my day.

Now, two years later, another ballot arrived at my door. I fully ignored it for days, until November 1st. I sat down, looked at it, then shoved it under some books. But it was still there. I grabbed it, opened it, looked at the boxes, then shoved it away, out of sight again. Sitting in silence, I thought about my civic duty, how this was a beautiful right, how those suffragettes had sacrificed so I could speak my mind. The problem was, as always, I didn't know what my mind was saying.

I wanted to just throw it away, ignore Frank Grum and Chris Dudley and all of those other white men. But something in me said, no. Formulate some opinions and stick to them, based on your own heart and the Jesus inside of you. So I did some research online, wincing at the mudslinging. I only voted for about half of the people/issues that were on the ballot. But I feel pretty good about that half.

I believe, as a Christ-follower, that Jesus can redeem anything. Even this crazy, sad, messed-up country. Even this broken, hollow, crying world. So I give my vote, say my piece, and let Jesus guide my own actions: act justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly with him in every season of life.

Well, the actual walking can wait, I hope. I'm a little too full of pasta to be going very far.

[Prose#6] Furrowed Brow

I glanced in the review mirror last Monday and realized it was never going to go away.

For some reason, this revelation was shocking to me. It was a normal Monday commute, summertime sunshine lighting up the Oregon sky, as clear as a summer in the Pacific Northwest can possibly be - such a contrast to the rain this region is known for. The sun is already up and at'em by the time I start my drive to work, iPod on shuffle, my favorite songs filling the interior of the car.

Warding against squinting through the sunlight bouncing off of street signs, I wore my favorite pair of sunglasses - Aviators, gold frame. I'm not one of those girls that spends a lot of money on clothes. But sunglasses - now that's different. I usually get my sunglasses beyond cheap at thrifts stores, and I struggle getting rid of any of them. This fact explains the seven pairs of sunglasses I have roaming about my station wagon.

Sunglasses on, I glanced in my review mirror. I saw, just slightly above the nose piece of my sunglasses, a crease in my brow. I've always had that crease right between my eyes slightly left of center. But today, it popped out at me as being particularly indented. And permanent. This wasn't any delightful and delicate brow furrowing. No, it was a deep furrow, deep enough to plant seeds in.

My face is a frowny face. It just wants to frown. I've been told I have a lovely smile, but timidity and thoughtfulness were always its biggest foes. This goes back to infancy. From the photos, I look to be deathly seriousI did so, but I didn't carry a smile on my face to just throw out willy-nilly. Part of that could be due to being incredibly sick as a young child and living with great pain for the first two years of my life. But even today, my best friend told me that 1) my face at rest looks annoyed, and 2) that when I narrowed my eyes in thought, I was incredibly intimidating. My dry and sarcastic sense of humor don't help the situation too much.

But for some reason, I didn't realize how permanent the creases would be. For some reason, I figured I'd fall in love or something and smile so much that the brow creases would cease to exist. Instead, I'm sitting at a stoplight, trying to contort my face so that the line disappears. I smile. Nothing. I lift my eyebrows and smile. Oops, too high. I balance it out just right so that the crease is slightly less noticeable, but it's still there. Plus, my face feels like it's been glued on.

I started getting sad. Frowning, actually. It's just going to get worse, and all of a sudden, I'll find myself the scary old lady that looks mean. I don't want to look mean! I want those wrinkles around my mouth that say I've smiled too much freely over my life and look at what it's done to me! I want to have wrinkles in the right places. And hopefully they won't show up until after my 25th birthday.

Once I put my eyes back on the road as traffic started to break up, I took my attention off of the mirror and more on the deeper situation. I realize that I wanted my face to reflect who I am - a loving friend, a kind daughter, a laughing spirit. And someone who frowns when she thinks or when she cracks a joke. I can't do anything about the lines that are there already. They inform my character, who I am both around others and by myself. But, if I want the grandma wrinkles, born out of love and many free smiles, then I need to start earning them. There's no better time than now, I thought, as I pulled into work and greeted a co-worker getting out of a minivan with a huge grin.

[Prose#5] Dancing

"Dancing almost always turns out to be a good idea." --Anne Lamott

Coming from a good Baptist family, dancing was a rarity in my house. Formal dancing, anyway - I have humorous images of my minister father busting loose in the kitchen of our house to Elvis, twisting like a good Christian boy never should. My younger sister and I were never put into ballet classes as children, though this could be due less to our church denomination and more to the lack of potential; I speak for myself, mainly. Around middle school, my sister tried out for cheerleading and was mildly encouraged in this by my ever-supporting parents, as long as all tempting body parts were covered at all time.

I surely can't place all blame on my parents. I was a shy, chubby girl, with little understanding of her body: how it moves, what it does, the power in its cords. Not much has changed, as I often find myself with bruises from misjudging the distance between my desk corner and my knee. Because of this lack of awareness of spacial relations (something on which I score low in any standardized test), I do my best to stay away from any sort of dancing whatsoever.

Yet, in high school, I found myself breaking this norm for - what else - the attention of a boy. A good friend of mine, one of those dangerous theater types who often breaks into song and/or dance for no apparent reason, was taking a swing class as part of a local community theater. One summer night, after a bowl of ice cream and some laughter on the wooden deck, he offered to teach me a few steps. Because this boy was cute and unbelievably confident, he wore down my flimsy defenses - for what girl would actually object to a boy's hands in hers, arm around her waist, with little chance for any funny business while doing a legitimate dance style?

He pulled me to him, and all words I had were spirited away by the nearness of his body. The teacher was patient as he imparted his wisdom to me, demonstrating the most basic rock-step. Nervously, I tried to wrap my mind around the new motions, wanting to pick them up quickly and impress him with my gracefulness. Unfortunately, neither want was realized, as it took me try after try to master even the simplest step and even once it was "mastered," there was little grace - instead, there was uncertainty, which threw off the rhythm with each slight hesitation. I was thinking, analyzing, trying to understand the physics of each motion. Until he looked at me, our faces too close together, brown eyes glimmering with faith in my elephant-esque feet, and said, "Stop thinking so much."

The key. Once I turned off the temples, let the beat and the horns and the bass rush through me like a wind, and trusted in my confident partner to lead me, I was dancing. The motion became something other, something more than feet moving in sync - instead, it was a like an energy that pulsed with the rhythm of the music, coming in even as physical energy was being exerted. No wonder there are so many photos of people laughing while dancing. That rush takes you by surprise, picks you up and lifts you to a place where you feel the physical connection with your partner and also a physical connection with yourself, with every molecule of your being vibrating in time with the beat.

When that boy moved on from my life, so did my brief stint as a swing dancer. More often than not, on the ever-present dance floor at weddings and reunions, I am awkward, using my mind to evaluate how I look and who is looking at me. I'm not good at letting another lead, and I am not good at dancing alone, even within a crowd. But every once in a while, the stars align and I trust my partner to carry me away. Then I feel that unique energy flow in and out, creating a homeostasis within and without, and I laugh with delight along with every molecule I possess.

[poem#21] Breathe

(I don't know what this is...probably nothing)

Sometimes I forget how to breathe
in this world of azure and gray, of
yes and no. The air seems too thick
somehow, my lungs within me beating
their wings, my chest on fire. It all
seems too much and yet not enough.
And I look around for you, for help,
like you did in the brighter days:
when you would come up behind me,
take my head in your hands, and exhale,
and I would feel your motion calming
those frantic wings that threatened
to fly out of my chest.
But now you are breathing another air,
an air that I have just felt briefly tickle
the back of my neck before it was gone,
and so, I watch you from afar, folding
into myself for protection,
trying to keep the air clear.